


Good Damage

by PartHeart



Category: Holby City
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revisits Group Animal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartHeart/pseuds/PartHeart
Summary: Sometimes we try and repurpose our pain as something useful. It can hurt to accept that it was for nothing. There’s no kintsugi. It’s just damage. You don’t get anything out of it.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Good Damage

He’s dressed in black. His hood is up, and it casts a dark shadow over his face. She can’t remember ever conversing with him, but she knows who he is. His tall stature and thin build makes him look uncannily like his father.

“What are you…?” She trails off and a frown fixes itself upon her face. He doesn’t work here anymore; he has no reason to be down here. She shakes her head and tells him as much. “You shouldn’t be down here. You can’t come in this way.”

She sees his jaw clench and he twists his neck. The movement is reptilian. All of a sudden she’s reminded of a snake tasting the air, locked onto the scent of prey and ready to strike. As he moves something glints in the orange-tinged artificial light of the basement. She spots it. Hanging off his right shoulder is a gun.

Her eyes widen and her heart steps up a gear. All of a sudden something cold and viscous runs through her veins in place of blood and she’s frozen to the spot. She can’t move. She can’t even blink. Her mind is screaming; gun, gun, gun, gun, gun, gun. The words run through her mind at such a pace that they begin to slur together. In that moment there is nothing else.

Then he begins to reach, and the spell is broken. The adrenaline surges and she turns, fast, on her heel. She starts to run.

She hears him laugh. The sound makes it clear that she’s target practice.

It doesn’t hurt. And then it does. The sound of the shot rings in her ear and, gradually, she becomes aware of the spread of something hot and wet. Time has slowed down, seconds now feel like minutes. She stumbles and coughs. She covers her mouth then pulls her hands away to inspect. She’s trembling. It’s blood.

The pain hits. It’s like nothing she’s ever felt. A low animalistic groan flows from her mouth as she’s submerged by wave upon relentless wave of agony. She staggers. At first she falls to her knees, and then to the ground.

She can’t hear anything expect ringing and buzzing in her ears, smothering her. Dark spots dance across her vision and everything threatens to turn black. She feels disconnected, somehow no longer part of the real world. She’s static on an untuned radio.

She needs to think! But it’s like trying to grab onto wisps of smoke. Her trail of thought disappears before it’s even fully formed.

She can’t keep her eyes open.

It’s cold.

She’s alone.

Her stomach lurches.

She’s going to die.

* * *

Dr Sharon Kozinsky watches the woman sitting across the desk from her in a contemplative silence. The psychiatrist had not long been back in Holby. She compares the little she knew of the Jac Naylor from 8 years ago to the woman sat in front of her now.

Jac shifts awkwardly under her gaze, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. She is suddenly very aware of the scruffiness of the long-sleeved baggy grey top she’s wearing, and the lack of makeup on her face, and the fact that it’s been four days since she last washed her hair. She turns her head in the direction of the window, looking away from the psychiatrist.

Once it is evident that Jac isn’t about to start speaking of her own accord, Sharon prompts her. “How are you feeling?” She asks in a conversational tone, then she takes another sip of her coffee.

Jac narrows her eyes. “Never better, Kozinsky. You just missed me doing cartwheels.”

Sharon acknowledges the sarcasm with a half-smile. “Are you sleeping?” She asks, unable to ignore the large bags under her eyes.

Jac hesitates, then shakes her head. Her eyes are still fixed on the view out of the window. It’s 6pm and the golden evening sunlight slants into the office, illuminating a patch of the vinyl flooring.

“Are you getting any sleep at all?” Sharon tilts her head.

“I manage a few hours here and there.” Jac mutters reluctantly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You need more than a few hours.”

Jac scowls and says nothing in return. The clock on the wall continues to tick away. The noise is soft, and regular.

“How’s your appetite been?”

A shrug is the only reply she gets.

“When did you last eat? Have you had anything today?”

Once again Jac pauses, then shakes her head. “I had something yesterday, I think...”

“You don’t sound sure.” She observes.

Jac shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “It’s hard to keep track.”

She places her coffee down and sits forward, switching from conversational to professional. “You need to take care of yourself, Jac. 3 meals a day and a decent night’s sleep.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m not a child.”

Sharon sighs then allows for a lengthy pause. “You know, I don’t normally operate this way.” She informs Jac, referring to the unorthodox nature of the out-of-hours appointment.

Jac responds with an uninterested shrug.

“Elliot is concerned about you.” She continues despite Jac’s apparent disinterest. The fact of the matter is that Elliot Hope is the reason why she’s seeing Jac at the end of a very busy afternoon clinic, when she’d much rather be on her way home to curl up in front of the tv with a ready meal and glass of merlot. Whilst it was a long time since she and Elliot had been a couple, she still had a soft spot for the professor, and he remains a firm friend. When he’d rung her to call in a favour, she’d found herself unable to say no.

The mention of Elliot’s name catches Jac’s attention. Her gaze is drawn away from the window and she turns instead to fix Sharon with a suspicious look. “What did he say?”

“That he was worried about you.”

Jac scoffs disbelievingly. “Right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Jac picks at a loose thread on her top and avoids eye contact. “He doesn’t care.”

Sharon frowns. “What makes you think that?”

She shakes her head, not wanting to talk about it. She’s never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve and it hurts to know the man she considered to be a father did not view her in a similar light. But she’s not about to admit that to his ex.

Sensing she’s not about to get a straight answer, Sharon moves on. “Tell me what’s been going on, Jac.”

Jac chews her bottom lip as she considers the instruction. She’s not sure she wants to play ball. “What do you already know? I’m not going to blab for the sake of it.”

“What do I know about the situation?” Sharon takes a moment to consider her response. “I know that you were ill and that you were in hospital last winter, and I know that you’ve had a very stressful experience recently.”

Jac’s eyes narrow at the mention of the ‘stressful experience’. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I know that you were held at gun-point. Again.” Sharon clarifies softly and attempts to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

In an instant Jac looks away and her hands curl into fists by her side. However, she doesn’t sound angry when she speaks, just bone-tired. “So am I.”


End file.
